But it's still on the list . . .

August 2013

08/03/2013

Still awake. Waiting for sleep to roll in like the tide in San Diego last week. The one that almost crushed me as I tried to body surf it out.

This is my life now. Waiting. Waiting to feel like the worst is over. Waiting for the next step. Waiting waiting waiting.

And it's really all I can do. Wait.

And while I wait, resentment. Where is the payoff? Why did I do this? Why am I still doing this? Is there any way for me to not have to do this? What are the chances that all of this is for nothing? That I should have cut my losses years ago? I've been doing this since I was 38. Since my son was 3, before he started school. I'm tired of doing it. I can't seem to get my fists up to fight any more. Can't seem to see a future, and when I do, I can't trust it, it could slip away at any moment, and even if I do my best, make the right choices, continue to sacrifice, it might not make any difference.

And all I can do is wait. Wait for trust to return. Wait for the good days to stack up until the bad days are far in the past and woefully outnumbered.

Wait.

Wait.

For what? I don't even know. But I'm waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for normalcy to return. Waiting for the next thing. Good, bad, indifferent. The next thing. Impatient to get there. And when I get there, I'm impatient for the next thing. Bed time, morning, lunch, work end, kids to bed, the next thing, the next thing, the next thing.

But it's rarely what I want. The reminder for the kids' meds has become oppressive. I don't want to shop on Sunday. Don't want to dance on Friday. Don't want to cook dinner. Do laundry. Watch kids. Be responsible.

88 days. 88 days where that wasn't even a choice. Trapped. Happy 40th. This is your life. Trapped.